The Fate Machine
by triedunture
Summary: This is the future. This is the problem.
1. Chapter 1

This is the future. This is the problem:

The world can't take much more of us, and everyone agrees that half of us need to go. Somewhere, somehow, someone invents a machine that decides who stays and who dies. No one knows what set of standards the machine uses to judge the souls of people, but it is always right, and it always kills the lesser person.

The Fate Machine has a few simple rules:

1. Two people go in, only one comes out.

2. Every person on earth must go in once, and only once.

3. Your number will come up randomly at any point in your life, and you must go.

4. You have two options when your number comes up: ask to have an opponent selected randomly, or choose an opponent.

5. Your opponent, if chosen, must agree. If random, your opponent has no choice.

Obviously, this results in some strategy. Chosen opponents are always close calls, as they both believe they can beat the other. Random battles are risky, as you could be pitted against someone who's had less opportunity to be a "bad" person, like a small child.

The system isn't perfect, but it works. People are slightly nicer than before. The rumor is the machine knows when you're just pretending, though.

When Wilson's number comes up, House has a theory.

"Pick me," he says.

Wilson scoffs. "I would slaughter you."

"I'll decline, of course," House says. "It will buy you some time to think of someone better."

Wilson shakes his head. "I don't know anyone who I could beat who would also accept. I'm going to ask for a random selection."

House has already watched Cuddy walk into the machine and never return (random battle: some teenager from India). He's lost Chase to Foreman (it had been close), and Cameron was beaten two years ago (random: an old man from England).

"Random is for suckers," House growls. "Pick me."

"No."

"Pick your brother."

"No!"

"It'll get you another month or two if you pick me," House says. "Enough time to get your patients re-assigned, all your affairs put in order. Than you can randomly die to your heart's content."

It's the jab about the patients that does it; House knew it would.

When House gets the official letter asking for his Yea or Nay, he waits the maximum three days before sending it back. And when Wilson steps into the machine and sees him standing there, he is not pleased.

"Bastard," he says. The machine powers on, and a warm red glow surrounds them.

House grins. "Exactly." And the machine calculates accordingly.


	2. Chapter 2

This is the future. This is what happens to Wilson and House inside the Machine:

The red glow grows and strengthens, turning brilliant and fiery. Both men have to shut their eyes and cover their eyelids with their hands. When the light fades, only one is left.

He stares at the pile of ashes at his feet.

"No," he says, not angry at first, not surprised. Just sure, absolutely sure that this is not real. "No," he repeats.

A few moments of thought and consideration, and he begins pounding his fists on the metal walls, banging against the smooth belly of the machine.

"You took him?!" he shouts. "You stupid fucking piece of shit!"

He keeps smashing his fists against the cool silver wall. When they bruise and tire, he throws his entire weight against the thing, shoulder and side, grunting like a linebacker.

"You stupid bastard! You were wrong!"

He's losing his strength now, and he crumples to the floor, sitting among the ashes and wishing to dissolve.

The Machine seems to sense this. A click, somewhere deep in its bowels, and a bright green light streams into the chamber.

He raises his eyes to the ceiling, the metallic contraption a maze of tubes and wires. A thin, jointed robotic arm descends, blinking a single camera eye in his face. It glances pointedly at the exit.

"I'm not going," he says defiantly.

It blinks again. The camera whirs in question.

"I'm not going to leave." He clutches at the smooth rivets in the floor. "You can't keep herding people through here if I stay. You'll have to kill me."

The arm twitches slightly to the side before retreating upwards. A calm voice, feminine but not human, flows through a hidden speaker: _Rule One. Two must enter, one must leave. _

"Yeah, the Thunderdome Rule," he says in distaste. "Don't care. I'm not leaving." He idly runs his hand through the ashes on the floor, grasping handfuls like beach sand.

_You are certain?_

A nod, a gasping breath.

_It is an unusual occurrence. _The Machine sounds suspicious.

"We were unusual men," he answers.

The Machine is silent for a long moment. Calculating? Running algorithms and charting the trends that might follow?

_It is not detrimental to the Goal_, it concludes at last, and the red glow comes back.

He tips his head back, letting the heat warm his face and dry the dampness on his cheeks. He clutches a fistful of ashes to his chest, directly over his heart.

"Thank you," he whispers before the red turns to black.


End file.
